Blood In My Mouth
by sinners'-delight
Summary: The taste was metallic, like blood in my mouth.
1. Chapter 1

**To the Readers: **I must first ask that if you start reading this story to please finish it as the story does not end at the beginning. Do not take the words for their literal sense and bear in mind that behind every action is a multiplicity of meaning and intention. If you do not like the character at the start remember that, if the writer has done her job, the character should no longer be the same at the end of the story so there is a distinct possibility that said character will gain your affections or at least your empathy when all has been said and done.

I have rated this story as it is because of sexuality alone and perhaps slight alcohol use by individuals not yet of legal age. I did not feel that it need be rated higher because there were no violent scenes, a lacking of any curse words whatsoever, and any mention of sexual encounters was not vividly described in any fashion. As to the subject of any "couplings" that may be disapproved of, it has been my understanding that the patrons of this site are rather open-minded individuals so I expect no comments or "flames" on the matter. If you did not like the coupling, simple leave and leave it unsaid as it is not your place to tell me what I should write. I thank you for your understanding. Reviews are encouraged but not necessary. Thank you for your time.

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Blood In My Mouth

It's not the same without Reg there.

It's my thought of the evening as I sit on Twister's bedroom floor tying a thread of carpet around my finger. Mrs. Rodriguez wouldn't have approved, as it was, of a young woman occupying her fifteen year old son's bedroom for the night. Even if that particular young woman had known the youngest Rodriguez her whole life and any attraction between the two was laughable at best.

Even then, it wasn't as though Reg spent much time with the three of us anymore, anyways. She had finally reached an age when running rampant with her little brother and his immature friends was no longer ideal. It didn't stop me from noting her absence and the impact it made on that evening and every evening past.

The first time I had met Reg, and all of them for that matter, was a perfect day. We were children. Our thoughts were on the clouds, the blue of the sky, the how fast and how far. She was beautiful, pristine, excitable. She was life and all that came with it.

I loved her the minute I laid eyes on her.

I remember, I had been walking down the boardwalk once, my skateboard in hand. Reg, Otto, Twister, one of them had been in the distance waving at me, calling at me. But I had been more interested in a fallen ice cream cone melting across my path. It was soaking into the wood grain, seeping through the cracks. So sickly sweet, I wondered who would ever want it now.

Twister's parents were out of town. Away, who knows where. Whoever cares? Him and Otto had swiped a pornographic video from his father's collection. It was as though suddenly everyone I knew was so interested in the human sexual organs.

They watched it with parted lips and widened eyes. Twister was confused, it was apparent on his face. He couldn't understand the why and the what the fuck. Every now and then he'd look disgusted and then it was washed away with confusion once again. Otto was trying to hide his hard on beneath a pillow. He was embarrassed, flustered, his cheeks splotched pink. He didn't want anyone to notice. They both wanted to stop the video, neither wanted to admit it. It was so grotesque, so beautifully grotesque, as the moans lingered in our ears.

And me? I was too interested in the reactions of my friends to even chance a peek at the film.

The other day Reg had called me. Out of nowhere, I remembered the surprise. She wanted to do something. We went to get lunch. Corndogs with ketchup splattered over the parchment paper they came wrapped in. She smiled at me, hair falling in her face, cheeks flushed, her lips a cherry. I was happy. We strolled down the boardwalk, shoulder to shoulder, threw our trash in a can when we were done. She told me she had lost her virginity last night. It tumbled from her mouth as casual as a lost puzzle piece.

"What did it feel like," I had asked.

"It hurt a lot," she had answered, "and there was blood."

She told me, "I didn't love him."

I looked at her, the sun's reflection broken up along her skin. She brushed sand off her tan shoulders, the muscles beneath flexed. I thought about ice cream, asked her if she wanted a cone. She shook her head. When I returned from the ice cream vendor she had gone.

I told no one in particular I was getting a glass of water and no one in particular replied. I slipped from the room and the overly exaggerated sounds of an erotic choreographed sex scene were shut out as I closed the door. The house outside that tiny room was dark. The corridors enclosed around me, smiling family pictures of people I either knew or didn't thrust from the black.

The kitchen was downstairs. Pale white, an apparition in the night.

I was startled to see him there sitting on the counter cradling a brown colored bottle between his jean-clad thighs. He was a rare sight, now. He would disappear for days then come around to make no comments and never look our way.

I was no longer afraid of the older Rodriguez boy. He was no less intimidating but he was a caged tiger. There was a thrill, a rush of his presence, but no real threat. He looked at me with glazed eyes, an unlit cigarette loosely held between his lips. I wondered what party he had come from, his hair still plastered with sweat to his skin around his forehead and neck. I wondered how drunk he was, how much pot he had smoked.

I stood addle at the entrance as he called to me "Squid". No one called me that anymore.

I remembered seeing him surfing a week or so ago. He never rode the waves, he was a wave, roiling and folding into itself. He wasn't Lars anymore. He was tall and slender, finely etched, leather straps and wooden beads wrapped tight about his wrists then as they were now. I had envied him in the sun. Envied his body, envied his movement, sheer violent force. Envied the way nature, with its raw power, loved and made love to him.

I didn't envy him now in the kitchen. My heart was struggling under the weight of fluttering emotion. I thought of Reg. Wondered how she'd felt, quivering under that boy as he plucked her cherry. I mumbled that I was there for a glass of water as though I had to reason myself to him. He said nothing, took the cigarette from his mouth, lifted that bottle to his lip and took a ginger sip. His eyes never left me, trailed over my body, apathetic. I shuddered.

"You're not the same," he commented.

"What do you mean?"

"You're taller."

"So are you. It's natural. You get older, you get taller. I'm older so I'm taller."

I didn't want to talk to him. He made my stomach churn. He made me sick, made my skin crawl. His very presence was insulting to me. He was profane and I wanted nothing to do with him.

"But your smaller," he said, "Than before." I eyed him, wondering what he was getting at. Did he have a point? He took another sip from the bottle.

"I've lost my baby fat," I told him, "…getting older…"

I looked blankly at the faucet. He whistled at me. I turned. He leaned forward, pulled a cup from the cupboard at his back, held it out to me. Plastic, the childish decorations faded from so many washings. I walked towards him, took the cup from him. My fingers brushed his and they itched from the contact. I made a face.

"You know, people eat squid," he said. He smelled of cigarette smoke and alcohol and weed flitting over his own lingering sweet scent of sweat and himself. My stomach clenched but I stayed my ground a moment. My head swam. I hated it. I liked the smell of him.

"I know," I told him. I asked, "What does that have to do with anything?"

He shrugged, took another sip from his bottle and, working a lighter out of his pocket, said, "I like to eat squid."

I started back towards the sink. He slipped from the counter, left the bottle there, lit his cigarette and leaned back against the spot where he'd been sitting. His eyes still on me.

He questioned, "Rocket here?"

"Yeah," I answered, annoyed, filling my glass. Emptying it. Then filling it again. Though I didn't know why. I watched the water spiral down the drain.

"I hate him." It was an old story. I was tired of it. I turned to him, his head lowered, chin touching his collar, eyes staring dully into mine, smoke slipping from his mouth and nostrils.

"Why?" I wondered, quietly, "You're both older now. There's nothing to compete for. You never see each other. What's the point."

He lowered his eyes. Examined his cigarette. Brought his eyes back up to me and said, "He's loud. Not really loud…you know, not loud as in loud, but loud."

I shook my head, "That doesn't make any sense."

He flicked the ash of his cigarette carelessly to the ground, turned his head away, placed the cigarette between his lips, took a long drawl. He brought the cigarette to rest at his side, smoke floated to the ceiling. I wondered if Reg would sleep with that boy again. I wondered if Twister and Otto had turned the tape off yet. I wondered why I was still standing there.

"Haven't you ever hated someone?"

I wasn't ready for the question but the answer came without hesitation, "Yes."

"Who?"

"You."

He turned his eyes back to me. I suddenly noticed how dark they were. How intense. I noticed how deep the circles were around them. How offset they were against his bronze skin. I noticed how his lip turned naturally into a sneer. I noticed the colors of the intricate tattoo that covered his left shoulder; red, yellow, green, black, peeking out from beneath his white ribbed tank. I noticed how fluidly his chest molded into his hips and his hips dipped into his jeans. I wondered what it would feel like under my hands, the dark silken skin, the carefully constructed muscles, the strong hip bones.

My stomach knotted, my head was dizzy suddenly. The idea repulsed me.

He sucked the smoke from the cigarette again. Stubbed it out on the counter top and flicked it to the sink. Took another sip of his bottle, glanced me. He held the bottle out then, towards me.

He said, "Have a drink."

I took a few steps forward, slow, uncertain. There was still a gap between us but I felt as though our body's were flush and the blood rushed to my head. I could smell him, feel the warmth permeated from his body. I took the bottle, held it in both my hands. Looked to him and my glasses slipped down my nose. Casually, he pushed them back up into place with his fingertips, then pressed his palms into the edge of the counter and watched me expectantly.

I lifted the bottle to my mouth. The smell of alcohol invaded my nostrils and I pulled it back without taking a drink, my face scrunched with disgust. He smiled at me in amusement, held his hand out and said, "Here." I handed the bottle back, watched enviously at he lifted it to his own mouth and the golden liquid easily fell from the bottle past his lips. He lowered the bottle, put it on the counter and looked at me. My heart pounded heavily.

Suddenly, with purposeful movement, swift and without thought, he grabbed my chin with his strong fingers, pulled me forward. Instinctively my eyes squeezed shut. His lips were on mine, hard and rough, he forced my mouth open and the liquid poured in, slithered down my throat so that I had no choice but to swallow. It escaped from the corners, dribbling down to my chin. The taste was metallic, like blood in my mouth. The alcohol was mingled with his saliva, it was still strong, but the feel of him, his lips, his tongue, somehow made it bearable.

Now our bodies were flush. His one hand still gripped my chin and neck, his other held my body close to him at my hip. My own hands had come up, at first to push him away, but now they lay uncertain and at a loss, curled against his collarbone and jaw line, feeling the muscles in his neck move as his mouth worked against mine. I tried to think of Reg but all I could think of was how the melted ice cream had washed away from the boardwalk when it rained the next day. I tried to worry about Twister or Otto coming downstairs but my mind kept thinking about how Twister looked disgusted and Otto had a hard on. The smell of smoke was making me lightheaded and I couldn't figure out if it was the alcohol or Lars's saliva that was fire in my veins.

The liquid was gone now but his lips were still on mine for a moment more. And when he finally pulled away, he pulled away entirely. I watched, dejected, as he took the bottle up, his back to me, walked unwaveringly across the kitchen, paused. I couldn't move. He turned back to me, sat atop the dining room table and set the bottle beside him. I knew how I stared at it and he caught me, smirking.

He moved the bottle, loosely holding it with both hands between his thighs once more.

He said, his eyes never leaving mine, "Want another drink?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Quick Note:** I had no intention of continuing with this story but as reviewers expressed interest in seeing more and because it did not quite feel finished and as I suddenly felt inspired, well, here we are. I'm not sure how much longer this story will be, but I hope that you will stay until it is ended.

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I'm holding my breath trying not to swallow water. But my lungs feel like they're ready to explode. I think the phone is ringing, surface for air. My mother is banging on the door, telling me to get out of the bathroom so I let the water drain from the sink and my face is soaked. I reach for my glasses. Everything's blurred and for a minute I think it all makes sense now.

I step from the bathroom to my mother's disapproving face. She holds the phone out to me but whoever was on the other end is gone. All I can hear is the dial tone. She looks awful. She's bitten her nails down to the flesh. There's a cold-sore on the corner of her lip. She's been crying again. I don't have to ask. I already know. Her latest boyfriend ended things.

I look at her, look her over. I try to figure out what the excuse was this time. 

Wasn't giving enough? There weren't enough tears for that one. 

It wasn't her it was him? Too many tears and the house was a disaster. 

I think I should but I don't want to ask. In her eyes I see my reflection like the one who stands accused. She still hasn't washed the mascara from her face. The powder foundation is sinking into her pores. Her bathrobe is tatters, old and soiled. It has the texture of a towel and the color of Pepto-Bismol. Her hair is tied up but unwashed strands dangle around her face.

"What were you doing in there?" she questions me.

I reply, not really lie, "What do you usually do in a restroom?" She raised a brow, the dour expression of her face pulling taut. She shoves the phone into my hand and I turn it off, the dial tone still ringing in my ear becoming an incessant buzz in my brain.

"Your friends were wondering where you are."

"Oh."

She eyes me. I eye her. We wait. Expecting. Debating. Just waiting. She's statuesque, peering down at me, her nose slightly wrinkled, her eyes narrowed. My mother. The queen of distaste. I thought of how she would look good in a sequined gown, knee high boots, red lipstick, curled hair. I tell her, "You should try being less of a prude. The male hormone is designed to react to the female form and exposure of said form usually helps expedite the process of sexual attraction."

She purses her lips. I pretend to be interested in the phone. She throws her hands in the air as she turns away, shaking her head so her bedraggled strands flutter about. I watch unperturbed. Over her shoulder she calls, "I'm telling the psychiatrist about this." I leave. 

My friends are just across the street at the house marked Rocket. The sun is low in the sky. It bites down at the pavement. I jog up the walk to the little yellow building. Ring the bell. Someone yells to come in so I do. The inside is a mess of plastic and metal and soft padded material. There's laughter somewhere within, the fake electric buzz of people talking on the television.

Otto's on the chair, Reg and Twister the couch. I'm surprised that Reg is even there. They're talking over the television, yelling to be heard instead of turning the volume down. I'm a bystander, an unobjectionable observer. Otto makes a comment that Reg doesn't like. She reaches over Twister to hit him. Twister maneuvers around her to see the television, holds her back somewhat and she smacks him as well. He whines her name and she rolls her eyes.

Suddenly, I snap into the conversation. Otto said, "I touched her tit, anyways," watching his sister for her reaction. 

She examines her nails, mutters, "Don't get too proud, I bet she'd let you finger her, too. After all, that's just the kind of slut she is." A look of confusion crosses Twister's face and Reg notices, giggles. There's something light and sweet in the sound. Surreptitiously, she slinks to his ear, cups it with her delicate hand, whispers, her mouth hot on his skin as Otto watches curiously on. Twister's eyes widen, he pulls back, looks at her with disgust.

"That's gross!"

She falls back laughing now and Otto smiles. 

I remember when I lived in Kansas my mother grew roses. They always bloomed too late, lasted only a few days before the winter came and froze their roots. I thought of my mother's face every time the roses died. Again and again, it was as if she had lost a child. A slew of children. The roses, red as blood, would turn black overnight.

Reg noticed me, called to me, "Sam."

I look at them. Their faces upturned. They weren't there. No one was ever in the place they seemed to be. 

In my mind, I'm rewinding a pornographic film. Otto and Twister are sleeping on the bed, on the floor. They aren't the same anymore. I'm putting the tape back in Mr. Rodgriquez's room with his others. I'm perusing the selection, wondering at the titles and the similar movie traits. Why does the girl have to be blonde? Why do her breast have to be so large? I'm shutting the door. I'm stumbling back down the hall. My head is light, my cheeks are red. I've had but one sip of whiskey, it's racing through my veins. 

"Hey, Sam, are you going to stand there all day?" Otto asks me and its like I'm seeing another human for the first time. I take a seat next to Twister on the couch. There's little distance between us and I can feel the warmth of his body prickling my arm hair. 

They continue as though I hadn't even entered. I feel impartial, broken away from the group. It's been a long time since I've felt awkward in that house. I try to focus on the television, drown out their words. I'm not entirely unsuccessful. The noise of the television and the chatter of my friends blurs together, becoming a dialogue in a foreign language. I can't separate the words so they meld into one continuous strain of sound.

And then a familiar noise jumps out at me and I focus in on it.

"Lars is having a party tonight," Reg says, "So I guess that means you're sleeping over, Twister?" 

Twister nods response, enthusiastic as a puppy. He brushes against me in his excited movement and I find myself irritated with him.

Suddenly, Reg is thoughtful. She's staring idly at her nails, her mouth a perfect pout, her eyelids slightly drooped, her brow drawn together. Her expression is flawlessly beautiful. I'm captivated, entranced by the multiplicity of emotions dancing behind her eyes. To be so impervious to the world around with something so simple as a gesture. I want to be like that.

"I think I'm going to go," Reg announces as though her decision could alter the course of history itself, "To the party."

"Me too."

All eyes are on me. I am vaguely aware that it was an unexpected thing to say. I've never expressed interest in social gatherings, I'm not really the type. I stay at home, read books, play computer games. But I've determined to go.

Twister whimpers, "Lars will be pissed if we crash his party." Reg scoffs. Otto says something and they argue. It's the same show I've seen rerun time and time again. I'm bored with it. 

I hear the door slam shut and realize time has passed and Twister and Otto have left. I somewhat recall them announcing a trip to the park. Save for the television, the room is now silent without them there. It had been awhile since I last was alone with Reg. I don't remember it ever being so uncomfortable between us. My palms, my underarms, the bottoms of my feet and the skin behind my knees are sticky with sweat.

The sun is tumbling in through the window. The air always smells of salt, a perk of living by the beach. I can hear her breath slipping in softly between her slightly parted lips, then gushing out again just as soft. From the corner of my eye I see her chest, her blossomed bosom, rise and fall. She is very still, her back straight not touching the back of the couch. Her eyes are wide saucers. Her toes are curled in the carpet, long muscular legs bronzed by the sun. She's chewing her inner cheek. With carefully picked movements she plucks the remote control from its place on the table in front of us. She flips through five different distinct channels before turning the television off. She rises off the couch, walks around towards the kitchen. 

For the time being, I am forgotten. I hear the refrigerator open. It closes seconds later. Reg returns, a soda in hand. Coke. I'm slightly aware of the feeling that comes with not having been asked if I wanted one. She plops back on the couch, her hair crinkling in the space between her neck and her shoulders. I love the sound the red can makes when she pops it open, that slow sizzle. She takes a sip and I can't help but feel a voyeur as I watch the tendons in her neck move up and down as she swallows. She lowers the can, looks at me, through me and suddenly I'm nothing more than a piece of furniture.

"We broke up," she states. I think to ask who but her shoulders shake somewhat and I realize it was the boy she'd slept with.

She reaffirms, "I didn't love him."

And I tell her, "It still hurts," as though she couldn't figure it out from the pain ripping into her steady breathing.

She picks at the sand beneath her fingernails, saying, "I kind of want to do it again. With someone else. You know? Someone, just, random." She looks up at me through her eyelashes, loose strands of untamed hair flickering across her face, "Sex, I mean. I kind of want to do the sex thing again."

I cough. I'm not entirely sure why she's telling me this. We don't really talk anymore. It's an odd subject to discuss with someone you've fallen out of touch with. Even odder given that I'm a virgin. I've no experience to draw from. I think to tell her that. But the conversation seems to be over so I don't. Without the television, the silence is all the more obvious. She sips at her soda. I gently tap the arm of the couch.

"What do you think about Lars?"

I fluster, "I don't." My cheeks are warm and her eyes are on me. The question is random. It catches me off guard. The hair on the back of my neck bristles.

"I've only been to one of his parties before," she says, she's focused on the top of her can now, plucking at the opening,. She tells me, "There's always a lot of people. From school, the beach. Are you sure you want to go?"

"Yes." I sound certain and I know it surprises her. I leave it without explanation, it's better that way. She's staring down at the can in her hands. I'm staring across the couch at her.

"Because I've decided," she suddenly starts up, as though a question hung in the air, "I've decided I'm going to...to...um...with someone at the party. And…well…I don't think I can if you're there."

I lower my eyes. The light is spilling in from the window, casting itself out across the living room table. A square of white heat. I know I shouldn't ask. It's not my place, not my business. I'm not even certain if I care the answer. But I do anyways, ask, that is.

"You already know, don't you, who it's going to be?" She flinches. My words were soft, unobtrusive. It's a bad sign.

"Yes." She takes another sip of her soda, lowers it. She twists at the silver lid opener. It's basically useless, after the can is open. I'm rethinking the party. I don't know why I said I wanted to go in the first place. I don't belong there. I'm watching her again and then, suddenly, remember why. She's disappearing. I want to disappear with her. At least, I don't want her to be alone.

"Are you going to tell me who?" I press. I sound more annoyed than I think I am. For a moment, I doubt she'll tell me. She has no reason to. She puckers her lips, pulls the lid opener off the can. Leans forward so that her shirt dips down in a bow. It clinks as she drops the disjointed piece of the can to the coffee table.

"It's only because I know he will," she says, "And it'll only be a one time thing. And I've heard things…you know…that he's actually pretty good." My eyes are slits, focused entirely on her. She's nervous, even though her voice is steady. She's avoiding me. Dancing around her answers. I know her far too well. I don't know her at all. I don't want her to say anything. I just want her to shut up. I want to tell her to just shut the fuck up. But I can't find the words, and I brought this on myself anyways.

I think of roses. I'm staring at Reg. She's dressed in white. She's picking a rose from a nearby bush. She cries out. She's pricked her finger. She brings it to my lip, her blood in my mouth. I don't want it. It tastes of poison. She's tainted. The rose has stained the front of her dress. I wonder if I'm a prude.

"Who is it?" I lick my lips, prop myself up on the couch.

"Well…it's just…like I said," she continues, losing her place for only a moment, "Only because I know he will. He's offered. Before. A few times, actually. And I see him, sometimes, and he's…you know…I don't know. Sometimes I think I want to…and, God, Sam. Listen to me. Besides, it'll be perfect, tonight…he just broke up with that bitch and…"

"Reg," I cut into her voice and she pauses, finally looking at me. I think, finally seeing me for the first time that day, "_Who_?"

"Lars."

Immediately, my head is hot. I've never felt so warm, all over, in my face, my cheeks, my throat. The back of my neck is cold with sweat. My eyes are blurred. It stings. I don't know why. I see her with him, in my mind. Moaning his name, in my ear. It makes me sick. Suddenly, she seems all wrong. All out of place. Her body is twisted, malformed. She's eyeing me with concern, with anxiety. I feel like I'll cry. She's awaiting my response.

"Oh." I say. She tilts her head.

"Oh," she repeats.

I tell her casually, lifting myself from the couch, "I want a drink." 


End file.
